


Stargazing, But Not

by MissDizzyD



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, But he's a good guy overall, Christmas, Ed Sheeran - Thinking Out Loud, Fandom Initiative Auction, Fluff, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pack Feels, Pack Mom Stiles, Post Season 2, Scott doesn't think things through, Sex, Smut, Stiles Cooks, and i had sterek feelings when i first heard it, because it's a seriously cute song, song inspired fic, there are a lot of feelings in this fic, with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:01:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDizzyD/pseuds/MissDizzyD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is the first to visit after everything goes to shit. (And things get happy from there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kiss Me Under the Light of A Thousand Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gryvon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryvon/gifts).



> So this is technically a prize from the Fandom Initiative Auction that was run... November (?) last year. I'm super late to the party. I have no excuse other than I'm a terrible writer with little to no motivation to actually, you know, write. Having said that, I've finally finished this two-chapter, fluffy, smutty, "3K" fanfic (I'm also pretty terrible with sticking to a word count). Please enjoy!

Stiles is the first to visit after everything goes to shit. After Erica and Boyd run from him like rats from a sinking ship, desert him like birds from a fallen tree. If he’d had any sense, Isaac would have gone with them; found a proper Alpha that could take care of them and teach them the ways of the wolf. After everything that had happened with Gerard, how he’d disappeared from the warehouse like a wisp of smoke caught in the wind, leaving no trail for Derek to follow. After Jackson suddenly became _Derek’s_ responsibility, as he was supposed to in the first place. After _Peter_.

And yet, after all that, it’s still Stiles who turns up at the train depot, half-healed grazes marring the side of his face, eyes dimmer than they’ve ever been, and apologising for Scott’s failures as both a decent human being and a mythical creature. No, really.

“I’ve come to apologise for Scott’s failures as both a decent human being and a mythical creature,” the kid intones, sounding like part of him wants to go and crawl under a blanket somewhere and sleep the decade away and the other part wants a reason to get angry, a reason to break something. Maybe he’s hoping that ‘something’ will be Derek. “What he did was a dick move,” he continues, sighing and dropping a little of his faux-bored expression to scrub his hands up through his hair and down over his face, “It was a hugely dickish move and if he’d had even half a gram of sense he would’ve come to me, he would’ve told me so I could have torn him-” Stiles cuts himself off, eyes flashing with righteous anger, “Never mind. It’s not important now. I just wanted you to know that I had nothing to do with it and if I had, I probably would’ve put a bullet between creepy Grandpa Argents eyes and been done with it.”

The most shocking thing about that declaration, Derek thinks, is that it isn’t really shocking at all. He’s known for a while that he and Stiles are, at their very core, cut from the same cloth. Stiles may act like he’s the innocent, harmless member of their little clique, the comedic value, the sassy mouth to lighten the mood when things get grey but it’s all a facade – a barrier that the kid puts up between himself and the world that’s only broken down in times of dire need. It’s a wall that hides the coldly calculating side of Stiles that would sooner put an end to someone like Gerard than give him even half a second to slip away into the night like he did.

“I just wanted you to know that. I don’t even know why,” He mutters, slipping his hands back into his pockets and walking away towards the staircase in the corner, the only place in the cavernous space where natural light filters through the gloom. His gait is awkward, stilted in a way that suggests at ribs that are bruised at the very least. Whoever it was that got their hands on Stiles definitely did a number on him.

Derek wants to rip that person to shreds.

*

The next time Stiles shows up, it’s with Isaac in tow. Isaac who looks sheepish and reluctant to actually leave Stiles’ car when he sees Derek waiting in front of the depot.

It’s been long enough between Stiles’ visits that the scrapes on his face have completely healed over and the Jackson-shaped dent in the hood of his Jeep has been fixed. He doesn’t even wince in pain when he practically tumbles out of the driver’s side door so his ribs must be nearly all the way healed. His hair’s even grown out enough that he has to sweep it off his forehead when he makes it back to vertical. The locks of dark hair look softer than the highest quality silk and Derek wants to bury his fingers in it, tug on it, make Stiles whimper and beg and submit.

Isaac grimaces at him like he knows exactly where Derek’s brain went and is equal parts horrified and internally teasing him like the child he so obviously is.

Stiles remains oblivious to Derek’s little mental diversion.

“Isaac has something he needs to tell you,” Stiles says, clapping Isaac on the shoulder and nudging him forward. “Go ahead, pup,” he adds condescendingly when Isaac only glares mulishly at the ground.

“I got a text,” Isaac starts, taking the phone that Derek got for him out of his pocket. Derek had claimed he needed to be able to get in contact with all of his betas and calling them out via howling wasn’t exactly a foolproof plan. It definitely was _not_ just a way of proving he could provide for his pack. “From Erica.” Derek snaps to attention at that, spine straightening and claws threatening to push through his nail beds. He sees Isaac flinch away as his eyes flash beta-yellow, but Stiles merely steps up in between them and gives Derek a scathing look.

“They’re both fine, calm down. Apparently it’s taken them nearly whole month to realise that running away without any provisions, very little money and nowhere to go was a mind-meltingly terrible plan,” He rolls his eyes, waving a hand idly through the air. “They want to come back but they’re worried you won’t accept them because according to the text, you weren’t answering your phone.” Derek nearly shies away from the look Stiles gives him. “I tried to call you this morning and couldn’t get through. So do us all a favour and turn your goddamn phone on and go get your betas back so we can all be a happy family again. Okay? Okay. Now, I’ll be off because I have a heist scheduled this afternoon. You coming or going, dude?” He directs at Isaac, already opening his car door and hopping back in.

Watching as Isaac glances between the two of them, seemingly torn, Derek thinks that Stiles doesn’t really understand his own position. Hell, _Derek_ barely even understands it. He doesn’t understand how a person who is so deliciously, unrepentantly human as Stiles can so obviously be Alpha material.

*

The diner they meet in is a dirty place at the side of the I-5 that once upon a time was probably the place to be, done up nicely like something out of _Grease._ Now though, it’s failed the test of time and every nook and cranny is black with dirt. There are cracks in the tiles, mould clinging to the ceiling, and Derek doesn’t even want to know why the break room is emitting a stench of death and decay so strong it makes his eyes water. Mouth breathing. Mouth breathing is good.

It isn’t until he properly looks around the main body of the diner that he sees two familiar heads at a corner booth, backs to the door but visibly tense. They know he’s here.

When he slides into the booth opposite them, he spends a second taking in every inch of their expressions, guilty faces tilted away from him, necks bared and looking for all the world like they expect him to eviscerate them right here in this shitty diner.

Erica’s hair is matted in a way that Derek hasn’t seen since that first night in the hospital, her face bare of the make-up that had become her war paint before they left. She’s wearing a turtle neck sweater that is several sizes too big and smells like must and the damp undergrowth of a forest. Boyd is dressed similarly. A cable knit button-up worn open over a cream coloured Henley that looks dirty and unwashed.

Derek’s heart aches. This is what they chose over him. Miserable nights spent in the woods enduring the wintry cold, or huddled together in some seedy little motel somewhere, no home comforts or even decent clothes to wear. He knew he wasn’t the ideal Alpha but surely he was better than the alternative.

“Look at me,” Derek commands, quietly enough that the middle aged woman behind the counter obnoxiously chewing her gum won’t be able to hear. Their eyes snap to his at the order and he breaks a little bit more. They’re just kids in need of some serious counselling. He knew that when he bit them of course, that was their main allure – they were children who were so desperate to fit in they would do anything necessary, including sign their humanity over to a man who didn’t know what he, himself wanted. But seeing them now, defences stripped back from exhaustion and desperation, he _loathes_ himself. This is all his fault. “Will you accept me as your Alpha?” He says instead, hoping that at some point his actions will rectify his mistakes.

“Derek...” Erica whispers, eyes reluctantly hopeful as they look into his.

“You’ll have us back?” Boyd asks quietly. It shocks Derek enough that he frowns at them, losing his carefully schooled impassive expression. These are his betas. Why would he desert them when they obviously want to come home?

“If you accept me as your Alpha.”

Safe to say they do. And Erica practically flings herself across the table to hug him, knocking over the salt shaker and forcing the breath from his lungs as she curls herself into his lap like an overgrown cat. Boyd does the more sensible thing and walks _around_ the table, sitting stiffly next to Derek until he wraps his arm around the teens shoulder and pulls him into the hug.

“Hey!” The woman behind that counter shouts, voice hoarse in a way that suggests too many cigarettes and too much hard liquor. “If you kids aren’t buying anything, you gotta leave.”

*

By the time Derek is pulling up outside the train depot, it’s like nothing has changed. Erica is acting like her old outspoken self but without the fake ‘better than you’ vibes she’d always given out to hide her insecurities, spitting out snarky comments from the backseat of the Camaro as Boyd stares out the window and occasionally shakes his head fondly at what Erica has to say.

“Wait,” Erica says, realising where they are and frowning, “You still live _here_. It’s been like a month Derek and you still don’t have an apartment?”

Derek can only growl in response, opening his car door harshly and pulling his seat forward for Erica. She unfolds herself from the car like she’s still trying to look like supermodel of the world. It’s completely at odds with the baggy jumper, dirty jeans and old sneakers she’s wearing. He smiles softly and ducks his head, taking a moment to shoot a text off to Isaac before following his betas into the depot.

*

When Isaac turns up just 15 minutes later, Stiles and Scott trail into the building after him. Scott looks acutely uncomfortable, like he would give anything to be anywhere but here right now (Derek wishes for the same thing, funnily enough) but Stiles swans in, walking straight past Derek without acknowledgement beyond clapping his cold hand over Derek’s shoulder. In fact, he completely ignores both Derek’s and Scott’s questioning looks and strides right up to Erica, pulling her into a hug and burying his face in her neck.

Derek feels a pang of something in his chest that he absolutely _refuses_ to label ‘jealousy’.

“You alright, Catwoman?” Stiles asks quietly, sounding sensitive and heartfelt and suddenly it’s _Derek_ that feels like the intruder, as if it was him who barged into someone else’s home uninvited.

“Stiles, I’m so sorry,” she replies, hugging him back just as tightly and whispering apology after apology until frankly, it starts to get a little awkward. “I should’ve stopped him.” Derek throws a questioning look at Scott, who looks back with the same nonplussed expression.

Boyd wanders over too, back from cleaning up in the sad excuse for a bathroom in the corner of the depot. He puts one huge hand on Stiles’ shoulder and, once he has Stiles’ attention, mutters his own apology.

“So,” Stiles says, finally pulling away with a tiny sniff and keeping one arm around Erica, “Now that we’re all back and still alive, which, yay – am I right? We can all nag Derek until he finds somewhere to live that’s a teensy bit less likely to give me tetanus,” he finishes with a wicked smirk as Erica immediately takes up his cause, ranting about how she will not be sleeping in a room that looks like something from a Saw movie so he’d better get his act together.

The next morning (afternoon – who’s he kidding?), he finds a stack of newspaper clippings on the box next to his mattress that he’s been using as a nightstand. Each one has a picture of an apartment, varying in price and comfort level, each with a star rating and commentary that even in ink is obviously a physical manifestation of Stiles’ internal monologue.

Derek tells himself that it’s easier to just give in and find an apartment than put up with the harassment he’ll get otherwise. He absolutely does not think about possible colour schemes for his hypothetical bathroom.

*

Within a week, he’s bought an apartment. It’s not all that far from the train depot and when he first went to see it the estate agent excitedly told him how it was a great renovation opportunity with so much potential and can he imagine the view from the huge windows first thing in the morning?

It’s on the top floor of an apartment building in the industrial sector of town, open plan with cement floors and bare brick walls that honestly, Derek probably won’t end up doing anything with. He doesn’t much care if it’s not the prettiest place he could be but it has a roof, a stove, and room for the pack so it’ll do for now.

His first night sleeping in the apartment, under a blanket that he’d taken from the train depot earlier, he dreams. He dreams of his family: his mother and father, his sisters and brother, Peter in his pre-fire sass mode with his daughter on his hip and his arm around Derek’s Aunt Felicia, his grandparents and cousins. He dreams of Laura wrapping her arms around him like she did in New York except this time she has a grin on her face, exuberant with happiness like Derek hasn’t seen in years and years. Laura tells him how proud of him they all are. That they’re glad he’s finally moving on and letting go of the past, letting his ghosts rest for once.

When he wakes up, he still feels her hand warm upon his cheek and for the first time since Laura left him alone in their tiny New York apartment, promises of returning in a couple of days ringing in his ears, he feels safe.

*

It isn’t until he and the betas are fully settled into the apartment that a whole new bout of pestering starts.

In the hell of the last couple of months, Derek has been desperately trying to ignore the fact that Christmas is just round the corner. And he’s been succeeding too. He doesn’t want to think about how he hasn’t had a proper Christmas since the fire, how this will be his first Christmas without Laura, but that was before Erica and Boyd had come home, before Erica and Isaac had resumed their (frankly terrifying) demon-twin dynamic that meant Derek was having to listen to their incessant preaching about why Christmas was a thing to be embraced and celebrated, especially when they had no immediate supernatural problems to deal with.

They’d even gone so far as begging him to get a tree for his loft apartment. It had been going on for _days._ He was _this close_ to snapping.

“And really,” Erica continues, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Derek was doing his best to sink into his new couch and pretend she didn’t exist. “This is our first Christmas as a pack. We should celebrate it even if it’s just us.”

“Yeah, we’re not saying we _have_ to invite Scott and the others,” Isaac says, looking like it actually pains him to admit that much. Whatever unholy hero-worship thing Isaac has going for Scott would have to stop soon, it’s getting creepy. “But it’ll be fun. You know, presents, a tree, food that’s not from a can.”

“Come on Derek, it’s a celebration of pack and family, it’ll be great!” Erica concludes, her chirpy tone tipping Derek over the edge.

“Well if you’re that bothered,” he growls, snapping his book closed and rising from the couch, turning to glare at them both where they’re still sitting either side of his now empty space. “Why don’t you just do it yourself?” He finishes, realising far too late that he _definitely should not have said that_. Erica and Isaac stare up at him with wide eyes and then face each other very slowly. They stare at each other for a second then turn back to Derek, matching manic grins plastered on their faces.

Derek’s fucked.

*

It happens in the space of two and a half hours.

His loft goes from being dark and uninspiring to Santa’s fucking grotto in the time it takes for Derek to go on his daily run, pick up a crate of water from the store, and drive home from town. He gets back, lugging the crate through his front door, to find what could honestly pass as a Christmas display in Target. Not only that, but it seems like everyone he’s spoken to in the last year is suddenly in his private space. He even paid for this one; they can’t just turn up here out of the blue.

Lydia and Jackson are stood by a CD player on a side table in the corner, Lydia telling Jackson waspishly that no, he cannot switch the music because Bing Crosby is a classic musician and he recorded some of the best Christmas music of all time. She smacks his hand away when he tries to caress her hair and it’s difficult to remember the lovey-dovey couple that had rekindled their love for each other in the warehouse not all that long ago.

Scott and Isaac are happily stringing multicoloured lights and sparkling tinsel around a huge fir tree that’s making the whole room smell like nature and... _Green_. They’re chattering happily, Isaac beaming and Scott laughing like nothing is wrong. Like Scott didn’t completely screw everyone over last time they were all together. Derek’s finding it difficult to remember that, though, blinded as he is by Isaac’s smile. Isaac should always be smiling and if that means Scott has to be here... Then so be it.

Boyd and Erica are off to the side, tying a huge garland to the banister of the metal staircase that leads upstairs to the bedrooms. Erica’s hair is tied up in a pony tail, blonde curls cascading from the gold ribbon that holds them back. Her face is mostly in darkness, lit up only by the lights that are woven through the garland they’re stringing, but it’s illuminating enough that Derek can see her small smile as she leans in to kiss Boyd’s cheek gently. Boyd’s wearing a Henley that, at second glance, Derek realises is one of his.

Even Peter is here, lounging on the couch with his feet propped on a cardboard box that smells overwhelmingly of the Stilinski household and has _‘Christmas’_ scrawled on the side in Stiles’ handwriting. He’s watching the teenagers bustle around the loft with what at first glance seems like contempt, but Derek _knows_. He knows that Christmas has always been Peter’s favourite holiday and when Peter’s eyes meet his, he can see the glint of contentment there. They exchange a hesitant nod.

Derek isn’t even going to ask how Peter knows about the loft. Peter has his ways.

“Hey,” Stiles says in his ear, somehow managing to sneak up on Derek from behind. “Looks good, doesn’t it?” Derek turns to face him, taking in the slight pinkness of Stiles’ nose and the woollen scarf around his neck. There are a few tiny white flakes of snow caught in his hair and Derek’s left wondering when it had started to snow. It wasn’t when he was out, that was for sure. Stiles must have gotten caught in the very beginning of it. Derek drops his gaze a little lower to see the tray of take out coffee cups in Stiles’ hands. “I got you hot chocolate. I didn’t think coffee was your thing, but everyone loves hot chocolate, right? That’s yours on the end, in the Santa cup.”

Derek takes the proffered drink, feeling himself relax as he smells the hints of cinnamon and clove in amongst the chocolate and milk. It smells divine.

“Ooh!” Erica calls, trotting down the staircase and over to where Derek and Stiles are still stood in the doorway. “Coffee. Thank god.” She plucks a cup out at random, pulling the top off and taking a sniff. “Blech, who ordered mocha with caramel and... coconut?”

“Who do you think?” Scott asks, nudging Stiles’ shoulder as he reaches for a cup.

“Wait, Scott,” Stiles sighs, exasperated. “That one’s not yours. That’s Lydia’s chai latte, soy milk, no sugar. There you go, Princess,” he bows a little as he hands over her drink. She _hmph_ ’s and flounces back towards the windows, carefully skirting Peter who watches her with a smirk as she passes.

“Gingerbread lattes for both Scott and Isaac,” Stiles says, handing both cups over to Scott, who hands one off to Isaac when he’s back at the tree. Isaac quirks a smile at him. “Jackson’s gross black coffee, unsweetened and bitter as he is,” he taunts, handing Jackson his drink.

“Hilarious, Stilinski,” Jackson grumbles, accepting the drink with a surprising lack of animosity.

“You’re just jealous,” Stiles winks at Derek and a slick heat slides through Derek’s chest, spreading outwards from his sternum and he takes a sip of his drink to distract himself. Peter raises an eyebrow at him and then stands up, coming to take his drink from Stiles. “Earl Grey with milk for creepy Uncle Peter, please don’t linger after pickup,” he adds, shuddering but meeting Peter’s eyes straight on. His heart stays steady and Derek feels something like pride settle in his gut. Stiles is brave, undeniably so. Not many people would be able to face a man they helped kill. Derek’s still struggling with it, at least. “Americano for Boyd and cappuccino for Catwoman.” He hands both drinks to Erica, who’s been hovering less than patiently for her drink.

“And for batman, a gross mix of mocha, caramel and coconut,” she laughs, sitting back on the stairs with Boyd.

“That’s white chocolate mocha with caramel syrup and coconut shavings to you, Miss Reyes,” he teases, handing the now empty tray off to Derek and sliding the door closed behind them. “Come on, I’ve got food in the kitchen.”

He leads Derek with a hand on his elbow, as if Derek doesn’t know where his own kitchen is. Which he does. He even has a box of cereal in one of the cupboards. “Isaac said your fridge was kind of bare so I got some stuff on the way over earlier. There’s a chicken roasting as we speak and we’ve got carrots and broccoli, peas and sweetcorn, I’ve got gravy that’s just waiting for the chicken stock and parsnips and potatoes in with the chicken. I hope you don’t mind, I kind of monopolized your kitchen,” he finishes, looking up at Derek through his eyelashes. He’s bent over the stove, checking the back hobs and Derek just... Can’t. He can’t handle Stiles, in his kitchen, cooking him food, bringing him hot chocolate just the way he likes it.

He doesn’t realise he’s reaching out to touch him until Peter coughs from the doorway.

“I hate to interrupt,” he says silkily, not an ounce of regret in his voice, “But Chris Argent is at the door.” Peter has a glint in his eye that Derek categorically doesn’t like. The truce between the Hale pack and the Argents is less than shaky right now; it’s practically been decimated, stomped on and buried in a shallow grave and Peter looks all too ready to take down another Argent.

“You,” Stiles says, pulling Peter into the kitchen by the arm and then prodding him in the sternum, “Stay here. I’m not letting you ruin tonight by killing Argent, no matter what bad blood is between you. Derek,” He gestures for Derek to follow him as he strides from the kitchen towards the front door where Argent stands, carefully on the other side of the threshold but looking around the loft suspiciously. The betas are looking between Argent and Derek like they aren’t sure if they should be chasing him off their territory with teeth and claws. Scott looks torn between sucking up to Argent and coming to stand defensively in front of Stiles and Lydia looks like she honestly couldn’t care less as she sips her drink and leans against Jackson.

“What do you want?” Derek snarls as he strides up so he’s half a step ahead of Stiles but still a safe distance from Argent. He can smell the ground wolfsbane from here and he isn’t going to give Argent even half an excuse to use it.

“We need to talk about the treaty and where it stands,” Argent says calmly, his fingers twitching ever so slightly at his sides. He keeps eye contact with Derek until his gaze flits away, darting around the loft again before landing on Stiles. “Especially with regard to younger additions to your pack, it seems.”

Derek’s hackles rise and he steps so he’s completely in front of Stiles. That sounded an awful lot like a threat.

“Hey, calm down Big Bad,” Stiles mumbles, pressing the tips of his fingers to Derek’s back and moving to stand next to him. He addresses Argent. “We’re kind of busy tonight. Pack thing. Why don’t we come to you tomorrow afternoon?” Although technically a question, Stiles’ inflection makes it sound more like a statement. Sure enough, when Argent opens his mouth to reply, Stiles cuts across him. “That wasn’t a question. We’ll see you tomorrow, Mister Argent,” and he pulls the door shut, waving jauntily as Argent’s livid face disappears.

The oven timer beeps, breaking the awkward silence that descends on the apartment.

“The chicken needs basting,” Stiles hums quietly, bouncing back over to the kitchen like he didn’t just offend a hunter who could legitimately kill everyone he cares about. Derek stares helplessly after him.

He’s so in love with this kid, it hurts.

*

Stiles is an incredible cook. The chicken is moist and tender, the meat peeling away from the bones easily as Derek carves it in the kitchen, dealing out portions of it onto paper plates as Stiles spoons peas and corns and divvies up the parsnips, talking a mile a minute about how good it is that everyone’s together for at least one night and that he hasn’t had a chance to cook like this in _forever_.

Derek listens to the intonation of his voice as he talks, the lilt of his heartbeat that hasn’t fully calmed down since Argent was at the door. Stiles’ scent is overwhelming as close as he is and it’s starting to seep into the apartment, into Derek’s clothes and Derek kind of wants it to stay forever. He wants _Stiles_ to stay forever, where he can keep an eye on him to make sure he’s happy and whole and safe. He’d give his life to make sure Stiles is safe.

“You alright, dude?” Stiles asks, putting his warm hand on Derek’s forearm where his sleeve finishes. The touch burns, like a brand is being pressed against his skin, claiming him permanently and Derek is all too happy to be burnt. He turns his hand over, ghosting over the vulnerable skin of Stiles’ wrist with the very tips of his fingers, feeling the boy’s pulse rocket through his thin skin. He’s close enough to see Stiles’ pupils widen, consume the golden brown irises like the night chasing away the day. Close enough to hear his own name fall from the mouth he loves so much as his fingers trace up Stiles’ arm, over his shoulder and onto his neck, pressing his thumb down into the pulse point there until the boy groans and leans towards him, eyes intent on Derek’s mouth.

“Food ready?” Isaac shouts, careening around the corner and into the kitchen like a puppy on roller skates. Stiles and Derek had jumped apart as soon as Isaac made himself known and the beta seems completely oblivious to the situation he’d interrupted. “Aw man, I love parsnips.”

*

They all sit around in the main room, plates full of food balanced on their knees and eating with plastic cutlery. It’s quiet for the most part; Stiles’ usual chatter is somewhat stunted and he looks permanently flushed. It’s mostly Erica, Isaac and Boyd who talk, huddled in a group next to the tree with Scott on the outskirts or their circle. Peter has retreated to the staircase, silent as he eats, and Lydia and Jackson are sitting together on the armchair nearest the window.

Derek sits on the couch in what has become his usual place, with Stiles’ toes tucked under his thigh. The boy hadn’t given him much choice, had flopped down next to him after handing everyone else their food and tucked in, stealing one of Derek’s pieces of chicken when he’d eaten all of his own. Derek had given a token growl but if Stiles’ slight smile was anything to go by, it hadn’t come off angry at all, more fond than anything.

The music’s still playing by the time they all finish, paper plates and plastic cutlery scattered around Derek’s loft like casualties of war, and Stiles has ended up reclined into the arm of the sofa, legs flung over Derek’s, cutting off the circulation to his toes. He sways his head slightly as he hums along with what Lydia claims are the Christmas classics and Derek stares in what he can only call adoration.

_This kid._

He slides his hand over Stiles’ ankle, squeezing it lightly in his palm, marvelling somewhat at having someone so close, someone who actually trusts him enough to casually swing their legs over his as if it’s no big deal. He hasn’t been this close to another person since Laura died. He supposes mutual life saving probably has that effect though.

Everything is perfectly still for a second. Stiles’ face is bathed in a rosy glow from the lights on the tree and it makes his moles and freckles stand out in contrast. His hair is stuck up in odd directions from where he’s run his fingers through it throughout the day and the bones of his neck and shoulders are prominent in the muted light.

Stiles is beautiful. There are no other words.

The couch is soft underneath Derek and he’s surrounded by the people he cares about most, has his hands on the one he’s finding he couldn’t live without – wouldn’t be _alive_ without. He owes Stiles everything, and he’d give it in a second.

He breathes deeply and closes his eyes, knowing that when he opens them, he’ll still be enveloped by the undeniable feeling of family.

*

Stiles is gone when he wakes up. He has a moment of panic, feeling around the other end of the couch like it’s possible Stiles has just moved further along the cushions, but no. He’s gone.

The room is silent. The betas are asleep where they’d been sitting, cuddled together on the floor under one of Derek’s blankets looking for all the world like a litter of sleepy puppies. He takes a moment to observe them, to watch as Isaac scrunches up his nose in his sleep then brushes Erica’s hair away from his face, only to hug in tighter once the irritation is gone. Scott tightens his arm around Isaac’s waist, pulling him back until he’s flush against Scott’s chest.

Lydia and Jackson are dozing on the arm chair, Jackson holding Lydia’s head under his chin like he’s trying to protect her from the world. It’s sweet, Derek thinks, that they’ve been able to fall back into one another so easily, even after everything. In consciousness Lydia snaps and Jackson tests his boundaries, they argue and snip at one another like an old married couple but in sleep they show their true colours, holding each other as tight as they can, stubborn enough to hold on even through the roughest times.

Derek looks around. Peter’s gone. Derek doesn’t know where his uncle spends most of his time, or even where he sleeps at night but he doesn’t much care. It’ll be a long time before he truly trusts his uncle again.

He lets his head flop back against the cushions again, neck a little sore, and that’s when he hears a soft bang from the kitchen, followed by a hushed curse. Derek stands silently. He follows the slight noises, the melody of that particular heartbeat until he’s standing in the door to the kitchen, watching Stiles clear and stack the paper plates with undue care. He moves quietly, his bare feet crossing carefully from one side of the kitchen to the other; to the bin and back; to the hob to scrape the leftovers into a single pan. The boy doesn’t realise Derek is in the room until he’s right behind him, dropping his forehead to the nape of Stiles’ neck.

It isn’t until Stiles lets out an aborted scream, muffled by Derek’s quick hand over his mouth, that the Alpha thinks maybe, just maybe, he should’ve announced himself.

“Sorry,” Derek mutters, millimetres from Stiles’ ear. “Don’t wake the betas.” He takes his hand away and steps back, willing to move away and drop the whole thing if Stiles decides he doesn’t want this. Stiles turns towards him, his back arching into the counter as he leans back, hands on the edge.

“I... I don’t know what you want,” Stiles whispers, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and avoiding Derek’s eyes. “I just don’t know, and I’m not sure what to do. I mean, I – I want you, don’t get me wrong I want you so bad it sometimes hurts _not_ to be with you but I don’t know what _you_ want. I’m not sure I can handle this being a one-time thing, it’s not the way I’m wired, but-”

Derek steps towards him, reaching out with his left hand until he’s cradling Stiles’ jaw with a feather light touch.

“I don’t want a one-time thing either,” he admits, voice low enough that Stiles has to lean forward to hear him, holding Derek’s hand to his cheek with his fingers. What he says is true. Derek couldn’t stand to have a flash in the pan romance with Stiles, he doesn’t want to be his winter fling or something to warm the cold nights. “But I’ll take whatever you give me.”

His easy assent seems to spur Stiles on. He rests his hands on Derek’s broad shoulders and gently pulls him forward, until his legs are spread to accommodate Derek’s and they’re pressed together as close as they can be. Derek wants to be closer. He wants Stiles to crawl under his skin and never leave him alone again. He doesn’t want to be alone again.

Stiles’ fingers find their way into his hair, stroking the back of his neck in small, soothing circles as he draws him in, only pausing once more to check for Derek’s permission before pressing their mouths together in a small, chaste kiss that makes Derek’s heart sing. This is what he’s been missing all along. He sees now that Stiles has always been this for him, not an annoyance or a distraction, but the person who has never left him behind or abandoned him in a crisis. As they break from the kiss, a small noise drops from Derek’s mouth – a cross between a whine and a groan and Stiles dives back in, cupping Derek’s face in both hands like he’s made of glass. Something precious to be loved and protected at all costs. It’s so juxtaposed to how Derek normally feels that his mind spins with the heady feeling of it.

They stand in the kitchen for a while exchanging gentle but enthusiastic kisses until Stiles lets out a whimper and bites at Derek’s bottom lip. It’s a stinging pressure that makes the wolf growl, lifting Stiles by the hips until he’s balanced on the counter, his long legs wrapped around Derek’s waist and his neck the perfect height for ravishing.

“Wait, Derek,” Stiles whispers. Derek reluctantly takes his teeth off the boy’s throat, quietly pleased that it’s bruising a spectacular purple already. “If this is going where I think it’s going – and I’m pretty sure it is,” he pushes his hips against Derek’s, feeling how hard they both are with a tiny, thrilled gasp, “We can’t do it here. I – _ah_ – refuse to have my first time be on a kitchen counter. Not that we shouldn’t totally revisit this in the future but – _oh, God_ – not the first time.”

It’s difficult, now that he’s started, to stop kissing Stiles’ throat. The mole-speckled stretch of skin has been taunting him since the start, beckoning him closer when the boy himself gave mixed signals. Stiles pulls him away with a finger under his chin.

“Derek? Take me to bed.”

*

The journey from the kitchen to Derek’s bedroom is one neither of them really have the patience for, especially considering Stiles’ apparent difficulty when using stairs, particularly with a garland impeding his grip on the hand rail. He’s like a gazelle trying to coordinate its limbs in its first week of life and it makes Derek huff out a laugh and pause right there on the stairs, in front of the still unconscious pack, and kiss his temple lightly. He takes both the boy’s hands in his and guides him through the darkness.

“Show off,” Stiles grumbles petulantly, pouting his adorable mouth and taking the liberty of leading Derek into his own bedroom. Suddenly Derek is incredibly glad that Erica had forced him to get a bed a few days ago. Not that she’d helped him get the pieces up the narrow staircase and into his room, let alone assemble it. She had directed him from the safe distance of the couch.

Now though, she has apparently decided that Derek’s room should be decorated for Christmas too. As if Santa’s Workshop downstairs wasn’t enough.

There’s what appears to be a canopy of lights spanning the entire ceiling of his room, stretched out from wall to wall and held up with pins in the mortar. They twinkle ever so slightly as he watches, weakening in a random pattern before fading back in.

“Woah, pretty,” Stiles sighs, face turned up to the lights so his eyes gleam.

“It’s nothing compared to you,” Derek admits on a whisper, feeling bereft when Stiles’ hands pull out of his and the boy wanders over to the bed to sit on the edge and look back at him coquettishly.

“You think I’m pretty?”

“You know you are,” he rumbles, palming Stiles’ knee caps and sinking to crouch between his legs. His face is pale like the moon, haloed by dark hair that’s messy from Derek’s fingers. The bruise is dark on his throat and it stands out in sharp relief. He presses his thumb to it.

“Aw man, come on,” Stiles groans, head dropping back to give Derek more room. “You c-can’t be serious right now. I just need – uh-”

“What do you need Stiles?” He asks, teasing the skin over Stiles’ jugular with his teeth and soothing across it with his tongue. Stiles tastes like autumn. Like spicy pumpkin and fresh fallen leaves mixed with hot coffee and warm home comfort. He tastes like an early morning run through the forest, crisp and bright in a way that Derek can’t truly capture with words. At the heart of the taste is something that can only be described as _Stiles_. Something so incandescent it blinds.

“Just... Need you. Please, come on Derek,” the boy whines, pushing his hips up. It puts pressure on Derek’s already painfully hard dick and he growls, low enough that it barely makes a sound but vibrates through his body. He eases Stiles further onto the bed, cradling his head as he lays him down, his other hand already working at the boy’s zipper and peeling his frustratingly tight skinny jeans down his hips.

“Please, get naked, need to see...” Stiles trails off, grabbing for Derek’s shirt with eager fingers to pull it hastily over his head. He tosses it across the room like it’s offended him by simply existing. “Christ.” He trails his fingers along the groves of Derek’s stomach, making the muscles jump and flex as the Alpha tries to control his reaction to the touch. “This is like, at least ten times better than what I imagined.”

Derek grips the hem of Stiles shirt and slides it off, dropping it carelessly to the floor and returning his attention to Stiles. Stiles who has managed to kick off his jeans and is now lying in Derek’s sheets with nothing but a pair of red boxers and a soft, sultry smile. Derek pops the button on his jeans and the smile turns into a wicked grin as the boy makes grabby hands. It makes him look like a four year old. He only laughs when Derek tells him as much.

“I, uh...” Stiles starts, pausing to hiss and scratch down Derek’s back when he laves a tongue over the boy’s nipple. “I want to taste you. In my mouth. I’ve been thinking about this. I want your dick in my mouth.” Derek bites the nub of flesh in his mouth and Stiles keens, manhandling Derek until he’s on his back, legs spread to accommodate the other’s torso as his hot breath ghosts over Derek’s dick. “Are you sure this is okay?”

Derek nods. This is more than okay. This is like everything Derek has ever wanted, rolled into one convenient Stiles-shaped package. He feels a tug at his briefs and watches intently as Stiles eyes his cock, bending slightly to trace a line up it with his tongue. Derek’s eyes flutter shut at the sensation and he grips the sheets tightly in one hand, lifting the other to stroke Stiles’ hair encouragingly as the boy takes more into his mouth. They groan simultaneously as the head of Derek’s cock hits Stiles’ throat and then Stiles... _Keeps going_ , pressing forward until he chokes, pulling off to catch his breath before jumping right back in, hollowing his cheeks around Derek’s cock and moaning at the taste.

When Derek finally picks up the courage to open his eyes, to look at the guy who’s giving him the best head he’s had in years, he finds Stiles’ eyes glinting at him in the glow from the lights, watching Derek respond to every swipe of his tongue, every twist of his wrist, every tightening of his lips around the shaft. The intensity in his eyes makes Derek shudder, his heart throbbing and every nerve ending in his body lights up at the feeling of being wanted, being the centre of someone’s attention in a way he hasn’t ever been.

He draws Stiles up, curling two fingers under his jaw and guiding his mouth to Derek’s. The taste is exquisite. A combination of Derek’s scent and what is essentially the very core of Stiles, overlaid with pure lust and want. He chases every hint of the cocktail, licking over Stiles’ lips and into his mouth until the boy’s panting and keening with each press of Derek’s mouth.

“Come on, please,” Stiles sighs, holding Derek’s head in place as Derek mouths at his neck, nipping over moles and tendons with slightly sharpened teeth. He wants to lay Stiles’ body out in his sheets and spend hours, maybe days, mapping out those moles and freckles, committing each square inch of his lithely muscled body to memory. “I need you in me, Der – _please_. I have,” he pauses to keen when Derek circles his nipple with his tongue, “I have lube... In my wallet. Jeans pocket.” Derek lets Stiles shuffle him off the bed, nudging him back to where the boy’s jeans were left earlier. “Fetch,” Stiles commands, winking when Derek throws him an unimpressed look, probably weakened by the fact that Stiles has kicked off his underwear and is lying on his bed completely naked, legs spread, slowly jerking himself off as he watches Derek move. Derek may flex more than entirely necessary.

He makes his way back to the bed, lube and a condom from Stiles’ wallet in hand. Stiles snatches the latter from his hand and throws it carelessly across the room. It hits the floor with a quiet thud and Derek has trouble suppressing a small, pleased growl. He can think of nothing he wants more than to come in Stiles, to mark him until his claim is irrefutable, until no one will dare interfere with what they have. He wants Stiles to give him everything. He wants to return it with interest.

He wants them to last. To endure. Together.

So he nudges Stiles onto his belly and takes his time opening him up, first using his mouth, tonguing gently at Stiles’ hole and listening raptly to the aborted whines and groans that Stiles tries so hard to stifle before they can be vocalised. He learns how much pressure Stiles likes, how rough he wants it, how long it takes until his eyes fill with tears of pleasure, and then how long after that it is until he loses all patience and bucks his hips, demanding to have something in him ‘ _right now or I swear to God you’ll have to watch as I fuck myself’._

Derek smoothly slides in one lubed up finger, stroking up and down Stiles’ sides when the scent of anxiety resurfaces. He calms him with kisses to his shoulder, his neck, his back until he’s relaxed enough to take another finger.

“I knew – _ah –_ knew you wanted me,” Stiles pants, hips rocking back onto Derek’s hand. “Oh god, yeah, j-just there. Everything you’ve ever thought of doing to me is-” he pauses, letting out a drawn out moan when Derek strokes across his prostate again, “It’s written all over your face. You _want_ me.” The kid finishes, looking back over his shoulder with a cocky grin, clearly not above being a little shit even when Derek’s working three fingers into his body.

“I thought that much was obvious,” Derek mutters, nipping at his shoulder and watching where his fingers disappear into Stiles’ hole.

“Got jokes tonight,” Stiles laughs breathlessly. “Come _on_ , just fuck me already would you? It’s not difficult- _oh sweet Jesus_ – Derek, please, I _need_ you.” Derek stills his fingers, resting his forehead against Stiles’ skin and breathing carefully. He can’t afford to lose his control with this, no matter how much Stiles pushes him in that direction, so he listens to their heartbeats, both quickened with exertion and arousal until his wolf curls up in his chest, eased back under the surface. “Derek,” Stiles says again, much softer and almost pleading as he takes Derek’s spare hand, holds it tightly in his own. “It’s alright.”

Derek’s fingers twitch at the reassurance Stiles gives so readily and the boy whines and arches into him at the movement. He clears his throat and squeezes Stiles’ hand.

“Ready?” He asks, voice a low grumble as he eases his fingers out and reaches for the lube, probably using too much but determined to make this good for both of them. He lines his cock up with Stiles’ loosened hole and watches as the boy visibly relaxes himself and nods.

At the confirmation, Derek slowly eases forwards, one hand gripping Stiles’ hips and the other working small circles into the back of the boy’s neck with his thumb. He has to remind himself to keep his movements gentle and smooth, sliding in until his hips bump against Stiles’, who moans and drops his head down onto his forearms. Derek stills, their hips pressed together, to allow Stiles time to adjust as he basks of the feeling of being connected with another person in such an intimate way. It’s a huge display of trust and it’s overwhelming.

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles gasps, breaking into Derek’s thoughts and cutting through the scent of lust and unadulterated happiness coming off them both. “So good, _so_ good for me. I- You’re so... _Uh..._ ”

He jerks his hips back further onto Derek’s cock impatiently, circling his hips in tiny, aborted movements until Derek stops him with a gentling hand to his waist, easing out slowly before sinking back into the heat, dizzy with the heady sensation of it.

Stiles is vocal. Obviously. He moans every time Derek slowly thrusts into him, keeping a deliberate, measure pace that has them both sweating and moving in perfect synchrony. He whines and keens when Derek bites his neck and throat, his back, his arms, every stretch of perfect, porcelain skin he can reach without breaking their rhythm. He groans things like _‘you’re so perfect’_ and _‘should always be in me’_ whenever he gets a spare breath. Derek has a hard time remembering why he ever wanted Stiles to shut up.

“Wait,” Stiles whispers. Derek freezes, ready to flee from his own den should he need to, should Stiles decide he’s not into this. “Let me... I need to. I need to see you, let me turn over,” he says urgently, tapping at Derek’s hip until he pulls out and gives him enough room to roll over onto his front, wriggling back on the covers to get comfortable. Once settled, Stiles reaches his hand up to brush across Derek’s cheek with a tiny, genuine smile and look of wonder in his eyes as he does so. “There. That’s better.”

Derek feels two long, muscular legs wrap around his hips, urging him back into position as Stiles looks at him mischievously, a grin lighting up his face.

“Get back to it then,” he teases and Derek takes great pleasure in watching that smug grin fall off his face when he drives back in, hitting Stiles’ prostate with every thrust. He leans down, kisses the boy’s mouth where it’s fallen open and is rewarded with a hand tugging at his hair, running through the strands. Derek feels the pressure building at the bottom of his spine and he takes Stiles’ dick in his hand, enjoying the weight of it in his palm as he jerks it in time with his thrusts, pulling Stiles to the edge with him, listening to his begging and moaning increasing in pitch. “Der... I’m gonna... Come, please, don’t stop-”

Stiles comes with a shout, hastily muffled when Derek presses their mouths together one last time while he follows over the precipice, stilling as he spills his come into Stiles’ hole, a triumphant growl resonating in his chest. He nuzzles at Stiles’ neck and licks over the veins and tendons there, feels when the boy goes completely, blissfully boneless at his ministrations.

The room is still and quiet, the only noise Derek’s happy rumblings and Stiles’ contented sigh. For a moment, the whole world seems peaceful.

*

Derek has to pull out eventually, if only to stop Stiles’ moaning that they’re going to be fused together with come and the pack will have to call an ambulance and do you really want to face that first thing in the morning Derek? No, I didn’t think so.

It doesn’t help that all Derek really wants to do is tuck Stiles right up close to his body and wallow in their combined scent – one of sex and jubilation and something that is far too serious this early on in their tentative relationship. But he pulls out anyway, soothing Stiles as he winces and shuffles his leg down off Derek’s hip.

“Ah, thank god, I was starting to cramp like that. Not sexy in any way, glad we prevented that one,” he mutters, eyes already starting to slip closed as Derek leans over him to grab his shirt from the floor. He carefully wipes away the come from Stiles’ stomach and chest, lingering over the areas where Derek’s teeth marks are beginning to bruise. They’ll be purple by the morning, and Derek feels warmth spreading across his sternum at the thought of Stiles carrying his mark and the whole pack knowing exactly what they did.

Once he’s dabbed most of what he can see off Stiles’ skin, he tosses the shirt carelessly into the corner. He’ll get around to doing his laundry at some point (even if he maybe secretly wants to seal the smell of his and Stiles’ come away in a vault to keep forever). Derek returns to his bed, seeing Stiles exactly as he left him, on his back and staring at the lights on the ceiling with heavy eyes.

“It’s like stargazing,” Stiles mutters, voice thick and low with exhaustion, “But not,” he point upwards, mapping out the tiny bulbs as they fade in and out, only looking away from them when Derek lowers himself onto the mattress and rearranges them until they’re both under the covers facing each other, Derek’s arm holding Stiles against his chest and their foreheads pressed together. He watches as Stiles’ eyelashes flutter closed again, despite the boy’s obvious efforts to stay awake with him. “Stars are beautiful. Should do that sometime.”


	2. We Found Love Right Where We Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well that’s a sight to wake up to,” Stiles mumbles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we go, chapter 2 of this "3K" fic. Further notes at the end of this chapter.

Derek wakes up the next day to weak winter sunlight shining through his bedroom window and the sound of a scuffle coming from downstairs. He sighs into his pillow and rolls into a sitting position, legs crossed as he looks around the room for his pants. The fairy lights are still twinkling steadily overhead.

“Well that’s a sight to wake up to,” Stiles mumbles, one eye still scrunched closed as he pulls the comforter more tightly around himself. He stretches one hand from the safety of the cocoon and runs his fingers through Derek’s already mussed hair, trailing his hand down over the scruff on his jaw. “I could get used to this,” he muses quietly as Derek leans into his touch, kisses his palm.

“Jackson and Scott are fighting,” Derek mutters reluctantly, kicking the blanket off himself. Stiles bolts upright with a comically emphatic wince and crawls out of the bed, looking somewhat lazily for clothes. Derek grabs a deep maroon shirt out of his bag and tosses it at Stiles. “Here, wear this.” He ignores the illicit thrill he gets from seeing Stiles pull it on without hesitation. The neckline is wide enough on his slimmer frame that his collarbones are showing and with them, a whole patchwork of bruises. Derek has to remind himself of the Jackson/Scott issue so he doesn’t throw Stiles back on the bed and find a way to keep him there forever, in or out of Derek’s clothes.

Once they’re both at least semi-decent (Derek goes without a shirt. It’s his house, they can all deal with it) they walk out into the hall, stopping at the top of the stairs to observe the situation in the main room below. Jackson and Scott are circling each other, hurling growls and angrily snarled words, none of which clue Derek in as to why the fuck they’re even fighting this early in the morning. Not that he actually cares. He’d still be in bed with Stiles if not for them and he’s ready to fuck their shit up if they don’t knock it off.

He hops over the railing, ignoring the anxious jump in Stiles’ heart as he does so, and lands in a crouch, letting his wolf take over his features. Insubordination in his pack will not be tolerated. A vicious roar rips out his throat and the room falls silent at last, all eyes turning to him. His fangs are sharp and deadly and he bares them as he stalks forward, roughly pushing the betas away from each other and glaring at them both in turn. He ignores Stiles’ muted whisper of, “What big teeth you have.”

“It wasn’t me-” Jackson starts, frowning and pouting like a wannabe model.

“Yeah, you might wanna stop talking, Jackson,” Stiles calls from the balcony, ignoring the surprised stares he gets from everyone except Lydia, who rolls her eyes and strides forward to cuff the back of Jackson’s head and then lead him away, the crinkle in her brow betraying her worry. “Just in case the fangs and claws weren’t indicator enough, that’s Derek’s I’m-severely-pissed-off face. You should definitely take notice of those teeth. They can do dangerous things,” he adds, sending a wink Derek’s way that has Derek smirking back at him proudly. “Now, puppies. If you can all behave for half an hour then I’ll make pancakes.”

“Aw dude,” Isaac sighs happily, the fear from moments ago already forgotten with the promise of sugary breakfast foods. “I freaking _love_ pancakes.”

*

Stiles had apparently planned for the mass sleepover (and the resulting hungry werewolves) when he’d been shopping because Derek opens his fridge to find two dozen eggs, a gallon of orange juice and several cartons of milk. He grabs the milk, pouring some into a mug before turning around and handing it to Stiles as the boy walks through the kitchen door, skin still slightly damp from their shower.

He’s wearing another one of Derek’s shirts, a brown one this time with the same pair of jeans from yesterday. Derek drops his face into Stiles’ neck, feeling a hand rise to palm the back of his neck when he sighs contentedly.

“Ugh,” Erica’s voice comes from the door. “First we have to hear it, then smell it and now we have to see it too. It’s like watching your parents make out,” she pulls a face, hip checking Derek out from in front of the fridge so she can grab the orange juice, lowering it from her mouth and finding a mug at Derek’s stern look.

“Wait,” Stiles says, sounding mortified as a blush of colour floods across his cheeks. “You... Heard us?” He stutters over the words.

“Well yeah,” she replies, putting away the carton and giving Stiles a look that clearly questions his sanity. “No offense Stilinski, but you are like the loudest person I’ve ever heard having sex. And my neighbours are _loud_.”

“All of you?” Stiles asks, voice sounding small and vulnerable as he tries to hide behind his mug. It makes Derek wants to take him somewhere safe and hide them both away.

“Not me,” Lydia answers offhandedly, striding into the room with Jackson in tow. “But it was obviously going to happen. Please, only a fool wouldn’t see that coming.”

“I didn’t see it coming,” Isaac offers, materialising in the doorway with an eager to please expression, looking at Stiles who gives him a small, grateful smile in return.

“Like I said...” Lydia mutters, accepting a glass of water from Jackson. Isaac’s face falls and Stiles sends a weak glare towards Lydia. She shrugs nonchalantly, perching on one of the stools at the breakfast bar and sipping her water, one hand moving to hold Jackson’s tightly like she thinks he’d start another fight unless she keeps him close. She’s probably right. Stiles sees the movement too, eyes honing in on it for a second before he turns to grab flour from the pantry.

“Scott,” Stiles says, collecting all the ingredients he needs to make pancakes and starting to crack eggs into a large mixing bowl. Scott shuffles into the room a few seconds later, glaring half heartedly at Derek who rolls his eyes and hands Stiles a carton of milk for the batter. “So...” He starts, faux casual, as if no one in the room can hear the uptick in his heart, as if he’s bracing for another argument. “What were you fighting about?”

Both Jackson and Scott stay stubbornly quiet, petulant pouts on their faces, for long enough that Stiles turns away from the bowl, wiping his hands off on a dish towel by his elbow. He stares at them both, eyebrows raised and obviously settling in to wait out the silence, an uncharacteristically mature move for the boy.

“Really?” Lydia sighs, flicking her hair over her shoulder and taking her hand back from Jackson. “Scott wants to go to Argent’s house with you this afternoon to see Allison. Jackson told him it was a stupid idea, and he was quite right too, even if his delivery was severely lacking sensitivity.” She aims the last part at Jackson who looks away from her grouchily.

Derek growls lowly. Stiles sighs. Isaac backs out of the room slowly, sensing the oncoming storm and Erica stands next to the fridge trying to bite back a vicious grin.

“I love her,” Scott protests, eyes flashing a dangerous yellow as he snarls at Jackson. Stiles and Derek both groan impatiently at exactly the same moment. No way can Derek deal with the ‘but-we’re-so-in-love-I-don’t-care-that-she-tried-to-kill-us-all-isn’t-she-so-talented-with-a-bow-and-arrow?’ whining this early in the morning.

“Listen, Scott,” Stiles starts, turning to take a whisk out of a drawer that had previously been empty. “It’s great that you feel so strongly about her, okay? It’s one of the truly wonderful things about growing up. But are you serious?” He waves a dismissive hand behind him as Scott starts to answer, effectively cutting him off. “No, actually think about this one dude. First of all she goes completely cray-cray, wants to kill Derek and then goes after Erica and Boyd, then Isaac and Jackson and _you_. Does your continued survival mean nothing to you?” He takes another bowl out of the cupboard and passes the remaining eggs off to Derek, along with the milk and a plastic fork. “Scramble.” He instructs, taking a brand new frying pan out of a plastic bag on the breakfast bar and taking off the tags. “Shit man, her family’s full of crazy psychos who have literally tried to kill all of us at some point or other. I don’t think she’s exactly good for the pack dynamic at this point.”

“I don’t care what’s good for _his_ pack,” Scott spits out, practically venomous with anger now. “If it comes down to it I’d pick Allison over him. Wouldn’t you?” He asks, apparently sure of his answer before it comes. Derek pauses his egg-scrambling, waiting tensely for the response.

“No,” Stiles answers, facing his best friend with a sad expression. “Scott, think about it. You all apparently know what we did last night,” his fingers drift to a purpling mark on his wrist, “But even if you didn’t... How can you think that the Argents’ view point is better? If they had their way, we would _all_ be dead by now.”

“But the Code-” Scott objects.

“Scott!” Stiles cuts him off, patience obviously dwindling. Erica makes a tiny, scared noise in the back of her throat, all traces of levity disappeared from her face. “Chris came here last night looking for Derek. To talk to him about ‘the younger additions to his pack’,” he mimes air quotes with his fingers, lowering his voice to sound more like Argent. “Do you think even for a _second_ he would let Allison anywhere near all of this after what happened with Gerard? She proved she’s not ready to handle this. She’s not ready to make fair decisions based on the solid facts right in front of her nose. She didn’t even pause to _look_ at them.”

“Her mom died,” Scott protests quietly, starting to look at least a little sheepish.

“That doesn’t give her permission to go all psycho on us. Scott, buddy,” Stiles brushes his fingers against Derek’s as he walks over to Scott, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder and looking him dead in the eye. “What happened _sucks_ , okay? It sucks _ass_. But the truth is, Allison’s mom died because her hatred of werewolves was strong enough that she’d rather die, leave her only daughter and her husband behind, than be like you.”

Scott drops his chin, silently acquiescing to Stiles’ point. Derek can see the effort it takes to admit that Stiles is right about this. He sees it in the boneless way he sags, the scent of sadness cloying in the air as the boys embrace, holding each other so tight it looks like they could break. He can’t help the swell of pride he feels for both boys.

“Maybe you’ll get there someday,” Stiles mutters, face squashed up against Scott’s, “But not today. Give her some more time, okay?” The only response is a light sniff from Scott. “Now,” Stiles says, turning Scott towards the kitchen door and grabbing his car keys from the counter. “I have more cups and plates in the car. Go fetch.” He gives him a light shove towards the loft door and shoos the rest of the betas out of the kitchen. They all go without a fight. Derek’s ready when the boy swerves back to him, resting his forehead on his shoulder and sighing against him. Derek gathers him against his chest and rubs his cheek into his hair, scenting him.

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbles after a minute or so. “I probably should’ve let you handle that one.”

Derek huffs. “No.”

“No, probably not,” he agrees, looping his arms around Derek’s neck and pulling him down for a quick kiss. He looks shy as he pulls away, looks up at Derek through his eyelashes until he swoops back in, kissing Derek’s mouth for real. It’s a slow, smooth kiss that makes his chest ache with emotion. He can imagine living the rest of his life like this – Stiles cooking breakfast for the pack whilst talking some sense into whichever beta acts out, kissing Derek when they get a spare moment. He can imagine having Stiles firmly situated in his space for the rest of their lives.

“Stiles!” Erica yells from the other room. “Stop macking on Derek and cook the goddamn pancakes!”

“Language!” Stiles shouts back, laughing quietly and shrugging in a resigned way. Derek spends the next five minutes mouthing ‘macking on Derek’ with a disgusted expression and thinking that this is what it must be like to have toddler-aged children.

*

Argent’s house is still intimidatingly big and the odour of wolfsbane hangs around it like a poisonous cloud. Stiles has barely hopped up onto the porch and rung the doorbell before Chris swings open the door, at first glance looking smug and disdainful, but underneath the facade, Derek can see his annoyance and anger shining through as clear as day. Stiles probably doesn’t help, grinning from ear to ear and stepping across the threshold easy as you please, calling out a cheery welcome.

“Well hey, Mister A! Good afternoon. Nice to see you when you’re not a) trying to kill me and my friends or b) threatening said friends in their own homes.” His smirk drops from his face, however, when Argent shuts the door behind Derek. They both feel the magic snap into place and Derek’s fangs slide from his gums, unconsciously moving to step in front of Stiles as he spots Allison sitting on the landing. She has a contrite look on her face, completely at odds with the tiny crossbow lying in her lap, fully loaded but not aimed at anyone in particular. Not that it needs to be. The mountain ash alone is enough of a threat.

“You said you wanted to renegotiate the terms of the truce, yes?” Stiles asks Argent coldly, narrowing his eyes as his right hand hovers halfway to his hip.

Argent nods sharply.

“Then you seriously need to do some reading because there is _no way_ that you’d think that was a good idea, had you done your research. Trapping an Alpha and a human pack mate in enemy territory during treaty negotiations?” He hisses through his teeth. “Not exactly conducive to a trusting, open environment. Break the barrier. Now.”

Argent opens his mouth to argue, but help comes from an unexpected source.

“Dad,” Allison says quietly from the upstairs landing. “Just break it. We want to make things better, not worse,” she aims the last statement at Stiles, looking at him with an apologetic look in her eyes. Stiles nods at her. Just once. Just enough to acknowledge the gesture without giving her any leeway. Chris moves to break the barrier, running his finger through the line of ash next to the door.

Stiles rolls his eyes and _tsks,_ obviously not content with the tiny gap in the line. He closes his eyes momentarily, muttering a short phrase under his breath, and the ash line disappears entirely, like a strong wind has blown throughout the entire house and obliterated any trace of the black powder.

“There we go. Now,” he looks first at Derek, shooting him a wink that Derek only acknowledges with a slight raise of one eyebrow, then turns to glance at each Argent in turn. “Don’t we all feel so much safer?” He grins a shit eating grin. “Conference room?”

*

They end up sat around Argent’s dining table, Stiles’ phone set to record the conversation for future reference. Derek has his hand on Stiles’ thigh, keeping both of them grounded as Argent lays out the ground rules. Derek doesn’t even bother trying to argue. He’ll leave that to Stiles who is both less violent and more eloquent. Stiles has got this one, Derek’s happy to let him lead.

That doesn’t mean that he’s happy with what Argent is suggesting. Not even close. He’s lost track of how many times he’s growled and felt his claws pushing through his nail beds, only to have Stiles’ hand steal over his and keep him human.

Allison stays quiet through the whole proceeding, her chin ducked and her eyes averted; only looking up briefly when Chris lays down his final demand.

“There are to be no humans below the age of eighteen in the pack, be that as friends, allies or... _mates_.” He practically snarls the word. “This is non-negotiable.” He stares at both of them as he sits, daring them to object. Well, jokes on him. Derek suspects Stiles has never, not once in his life, backed away from a dare and no hunter with his toys and whistles is going to change that now.

“Well,” Stiles starts, standing from his chair and planting his hands on the table, leaning over it towards Argent. “You know that isn’t going to happen, right?” He smirks as though Argent is foolish for even suggesting it which- Yeah, he kind of is. “I suggest a compromise,” he says regally, pushing away from the table and spreading his arms wide. Derek sits up straighter. This is where the fun really starts. “Firstly, you stop trying to tell our pack who they can and cannot date. Or you at least stop masquerading it as concern for their wellbeing. We all know you’re just too stubborn to let go of old prejudices, so you can stop pretending.

“So. Compromise. Humans can be a part of the pack in whatever parameter they like, including, but not limited to, friends, allies or mates. And that includes Allison as far as we’re concerned,” Stiles adds, his heartbeat staying steady but a slight scent of worry creeping into the air. “If you want to forbid her from seeing... Any of us then that’s your business. And it’s her business whether she actually listens to you or not. We do, however, retain the right to repeal this permission at any point in case, and not to put too fine a point on it, but in case you go completely bat shit _crazy_ again and try to kill my- our betas.”

Allison ducks her head again, looking like she’ll start crying at any moment. It’s a complete one-eighty from how Derek had seen her last, stabbing her knives into Isaac’s flesh without blinking. Then, she hadn’t seemed to care who she was hurting, that Isaac was her classmate, could’ve easily been what Scott is to her if things had been different. Now, she looks like what she is – an uninformed 17 year old girl struggling with the death of at least two family members. Derek can relate. He probably did worse.

Stiles works through all of Argent’s points, slowly coming to a set of rules and regulations that Derek thinks they can stick to. No, Derek won’t bite anyone else unless they’re of age and fully informed or the pros and cons of the bite. No, Derek’s territory is not limited by his family’s lands in the woods, the whole of Beacon County belongs to the Hale Pack (Deaton even has proof apparently, signed by both Derek’s mother and the head of the local ‘enforcement’ family from twenty years ago. The territory agreement will be revised when that contract runs out (“In fifteen years,” Stiles adds somewhat gleefully)). No, Peter will not be put down and any act of violence against him will be construed as an act of war against the Hale pack. However, if he acts out again, the hunters can have him.

They even arrange monthly check-ins, wherein the four of them will meet and revise the agreement if necessary. Others may be invited in with the approval of all four of them but Scott will never be allowed to any of these meetings. (“Because, quite frankly, I don’t trust you not to put a bullet between his eyes at the first provocation.”)

It all goes quite well until discussion of the betas’ parents comes into play.

“And finally, with regard to the whole ‘parents need to be informed’ bullshit – are you kidding me?” Stiles asks with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. “No freaking way is that happening. You are not forcing us to bring more people into the fold, okay? That would put more people in danger and we really do not need that much hassle right now. We can’t protect everyone.”

“Okay,” Chris answers simply, a coldly calculating look appearing in his eyes that Derek really doesn’t like. A sub-vocal growl works its way up his throat. “No parents. But I believe we need an in with the local law enforcement. Someone high up in the police department. Someone with power.”

“I will tell my father if and when I see fit,” Stiles sneers defensively, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard Derek wouldn’t be surprised if it gave way.

“That’s my compromise,” Argent continues mockingly, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair nonchalantly. Allison looks between the two of them like she really wants to step in and stick up for Stiles but still isn’t entirely sure where her loyalties lie. “Either you agree to tell the Sheriff or I go to your betas’ families tonight and... Inform them of the situation.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles snaps, clenching his teeth. “I’ll tell him. If that’s all-”

“When?”

“When I get round to it,” Stiles all but shouts, tension vibrating off him as he glares across the table at Argent, who raises his eyebrow like a petulant teenager. Stiles grabs his phone, stopping the recording and pressing at a few buttons too quickly for Derek to see what he’s actually doing. “I’ve sent you the recording. I’ll type up a transcription and send it to Deaton to be filed. If that’s all, I think I’ll see myself out,” he says dismissively, grabbing Derek’s hand and dragging him from the house. Neither of them spares a backwards glance.

*

Derek drives with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping Stiles’ tightly in his own, hoping that they can at least make it back to the loft before Stiles gives in to the panic that Derek _knows_ is currently clawing up his throat. The scent of salt water tinges the air as he pulls into his designated parking spot outside the building. He shuts off the engine and pulls Stiles over the console and into his lap so that they boy’s feet are in the passenger side chair and his neck is roughly level with Derek’s nose. Which is a total coincidence. Obviously.

“Sorry,” Stiles whispers, tucking his forehead into the crook of Derek’s neck and shoulder. “I just... I’ve been lying to him for all this time. And we’re not on the best terms at the moment anyway. It feels like it could be the last straw for him,” he sniffs quietly, pressing against Derek and Derek feels the unholy urge to restart the car and get them both the hell away from here for a while. God knows they need it. “It’s not like he’s expecting werewolves. He probably just thinks it’s drugs. Something curable. Not, ‘Hey daddy-oh, I’m the token human of a pack of mythical creatures, fight for my life on a regular basis and I lost my virginity to the hot, twenty-something year old Alpha just last night’, because who honest to God expects that? Oh. Oh my God. Shit I- We actually- _Fuck._ ”

Stiles’ heart ratchets up, beating almost dangerously fast as he gasps for oxygen. His scent, usually somewhat restless at the best of times, is drenched with anxiety and it clings to Derek’s sinuses, floods his chest, fills his brain until his only thought is ‘ _my mate is in danger’_.

A growl reverberates around his chest, low and reassuring, vibrating the whole car as he wraps his arms around Stiles and holds him to his chest steadfastly. A second later, and the proximity allows his rational brain to take over. An almost clinical voice in the back of his mind informs him that yes, this is a panic attack and Stiles needs to get some oxygen or there’s a high chance he might actually pass out. He gently picks up Stiles’ left hand in his own and presses it against his own chest, exaggerating his breathing, keeping up the soft rumble that is 100% Alpha wolf trying to take care of its pack.

Stiles pushes his hand against Derek’s chest, tapping his long forefinger in time with their breaths, counting away the inhales and exhales as they fall effortlessly in synch, noses pressed to each others’ necks.

“Come on,” Derek murmurs, the growl still present in his tone. “Just keep breathing. It’ll be okay. We’ll work this out.” He mutters mindless reassurances, keeping track of Stiles heartbeat, his anxiety levels (ever present but lessening now), his breathing, hot little puffs of air on Derek’s collarbone telling him when the worst of the attack has passed.

“I have to tell him,” Stiles states, sounding younger than Derek has ever heard.

“Yes.” Because there’s no point pretending. Coddling him will just make Stiles angrier.

“Will you... You know. Come with me? Do the thing, the face thing, prove I’m not insane?” He asks, pulling back until they can see each others’ eyes, Stiles’ looking deep chocolate-y brown in the fading light.

“Yes,” Derek answers again, easily offering the comfort Stiles seeks, running one hand along Stiles’ side in long, smooth strokes, the other threading between the short strands of hair at the nape of his neck. “But first,” he drops a kiss to Stiles’ mouth and wipes away an almost-dry tear track. “Dinner.”

*

Derek watches as Stiles cooks up the leftover roast chicken into a curry, pulling out a jar of vindaloo sauce and stirring it all together with some carrots and peas. He’s pretty sure this is the closest thing to a proper meal that he’s had in this apartment, not to mention his time at the depot. They eat facing each other on the sofa, their legs crossed as Stiles talks all about the research he’s been doing into pack history, specifically focusing on Beacon County and the surrounding areas. Apparently Deaton has a collection of journals that date back over 200 years, right when the first settlers came from England. He follows best he can, but the lineage gets complicated and Stiles meanders from thought to thought without rhyme or reason. So he settles back into the cushion, eats his curry, and watches as the boy’s eyes spark and dance with excitement as he details the first American werewolf’s struggles to keep her ‘curse’ from her fellow settlers, lest she be burned at the stake for witchcraft.

They stack the plates on the table and Derek pulls Stiles towards him, holds him close as they watch the sun go down through the windows, only shuffling their position slightly when Stiles complains his feet are going numb. It validates something within Derek as he listens to Stiles’ heartbeat slowing, his breathing going heavy as he leans into Derek more and more. It confirms that what he’s feeling isn’t just a fluke brought on by another person coming into his den and taking care of his pack. Stiles is here, _cuddling_ with him, in his space of his own volition when he could easily have run away from the whole thing and left Derek alone to deal with the Argents. But he stayed. He faced down Argent’s demands, made his own in return, negotiated on behalf of the pack without blinking, sacrificed his own needs to protect their wolves, cooked for them and provided for them in a way that Derek never has. And now he’s here, staying when most would have left. Embracing Derek when others would run. Loving where others fear. He’s more of an Alpha than Derek will ever be, but Derek’s happy to cede that control to Stiles, if he’ll only stay.

_Dear God, let him stay_ , Derek prays, pressing his lips to the boy’s forehead and closing his eyes.

*****

They make out on the sofa when they wake up, Stiles’ knees straddling Derek’s hips as their hands roam, fingers catching nipples and grooves of muscle through their shirts whilst they rock their cocks together, equally hard in their pants. Derek feels like they’re playing some convoluted game of chicken, seeing who can last the longest without any below the belt action. Part of him thinks Stiles will give in, reach for Derek’s zipper impatiently, wanting something tangible in his hands that he can play with. Then he remembers a younger version of Stiles pressed against a bedroom door, heart rabbit fast as he stares down the big bad – Derek himself – and there’s absolutely no way. No way that Stiles will lose a game of his own design. No way that he’ll give in first when he holds all the aces.

Derek doesn’t want to play games. At least not one that keeps Stiles’ cock out of his mouth.

It’s easy to flip them, to press the boy back into the couch cushions and slither down between his legs, working at his belt buckle with slightly clawed fingers until he has a clear view of Stiles’ erection, twitching as Derek’s breath escapes him and his eyes spark red. He can feel the change coming over him, his jaw shifting to accommodate bigger, sharper teeth, brow furrowing, his ears pricking with the sudden sensory overload. He can hear the blood rushing under Stiles’ skin, the quickened _thu-thump-swoosh_ that’s most prominent at his neck. Derek follows it, driven by an animal need to taste that pulse, to have that scent sitting on his tongue. He keeps one hand wrapped loosely around Stiles’ dick, jerking him slowly as his other traces the boy’s jugular, so easily bared to him.

If this is a game, Derek’s winning.

Until Stiles... Pushes him back, sending him sprawling across the floor in confusion, chest tingling from where Stiles had planted his hand and _pushed_.

The kid stands from the sofa, visibly unsteady on his feet, and all but falls onto Derek with absolutely no grace whatsoever, until his face is millimetres away and his mouth is begging to be kissed. They meet half way, Stiles pressing his tongue against Derek’s lips until he yields, opening up to him with only half a beat of hesitation that flutters away almost instantly.

Stiles’ fingers slot between his where his hand is resting on the boy’s thigh and he’s slowly guided back up, back towards where Stiles’ fly is undone and gaping open and Derek curls his palm around the hard cock now in his hand, relishing the way it makes Stiles gasp and shudder, then scramble for Derek’s zipper too, pulling him out of his jeans until they brush against one another. The contact is exquisite. Perfectly natural, an inevitable event that, had he bothered to look ahead, would have been obvious. Where else would this be heading?

It makes him feel young in a way that he hasn’t since... Well, since the fire. Since Kate robbed his innocence with sultry looks and tempting words, then stole his family just as completely.

He’d never been given this wholly teenaged experience, grinding on a couch and mutual hand jobs, kisses growing sloppier and sloppier as Stiles loses his breath from arousal and exertion, thrusting up into the hand he has wrapped around both of them.

Derek lies there and takes it like the gift it is, savouring each expression that flits across Stiles’ face. His hand reaches up and fits around the curve of Stiles’ skull, drawing him down so their foreheads rest together, eyes centimetres apart. He can see the reflection of his red eyes in Stiles’ and the hint of crimson looks like it belongs there, entwined amongst the whiskey brown in a way that it never truly gelled with Derek’s green.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by Stiles moaning his name, hitched and rough as his hand tightens and speeds up, dragging out first Stiles’ orgasm and then Derek’s. They ride it out, continuing to rock together until Derek grunts in discomfort, over sensitive and wrung out with emotion and feelings he can’t fully describe in a way that doesn’t sound far too serious this soon in their... _Thing._

Stiles rolls off of him, landing on the concrete floor in a way that suggests there’ll probably be bruises. He keeps hold on Derek’s hand, though, fingers intertwined as he sighs happily, his dick softening and hanging out of his pants. Not that Derek can judge. He’s reasonably sure his shirt is doomed judging from the way it’s sticking to his skin in certain places and he probably looks completely fucked out and overwhelmed, the enormity of his feelings crashing around him like a tsunami. They should probably talk about this. Scratch that. They should _definitely_ talk about this. He’s just opening his mouth to say... something, when Stiles lets out a loud snore, his mouth already hanging open in a way that Derek should absolutely not find charming or endearing.

This kid is going to be the death of him, and he honestly doesn’t care.

*

Derek has only met Sheriff Stilinski a handful of times. Most notable was the time when he was putting Derek into the backseat of his cruiser, arresting him for the murder of his sister on Stiles’ information. He’s not entirely sure how they went from that to this – he and Stiles awkwardly perched on the Stilinski sofa a respectable distance apart while Sheriff Stilinski stares them down from the other side of the coffee table, hands on his hips.

He doesn’t know what that stance means, but this feels an awful lot like that time when he and Laura got carried away with their play fighting and crushed his mother’s poppies. She had sat them down just like this and said-

“Do I want to know?” The Sheriff breaks him out of his reverie, sighing mightily when neither of them reply, instead keeping their eyes averted, Stiles staring at the trampled rug beneath their feet and Derek fixing his gaze on the cabinet directly opposite him that holds a multitude of trinkets and intrigues. The cabinet and its contents are meticulously clean where the rest of the room has a dishevelled, unkempt look to it, as if no one has been around often enough recently to bother tidying. Derek knows that much is true – the Sheriff works more than can be healthy and Stiles has been busy saving Beacon Hills from various mythical monsters for the last year. But the cabinet is clean. It reminds Derek of Laura’s books, the only ones on his shelf that are alphabetised by author, the rest haphazardly stacked wherever there was space at the time. Of her jewellery, polished and kept in a box at the back of his wardrobe. “Well?” Sheriff Stilinski adds after a few moments of silence.

“Probably not, you know,” Stiles starts, spitting the string of his hoodie out his mouth and standing as he starts talking. “This was a bad idea. We could all walk away right now and forget, if you wanted-”

“ _Sit,”_ The Sheriff commands, pointing back at the sofa until Stiles drops down again. “What’s going on with you?” He asks, shaking his head and starting to pace as the scent of Stiles’ anxiety floods the air. He mutters as he walks, things that Derek tunes out as he looks at Stiles, the way he’s biting at his lip so hard his teeth are starting to cut into skin, the sheen of salt water in his eyes that he tries to blink away, looking frustrated with himself. It makes the wolf within him howl and whine with the need to _protect._

“Sir,” Derek begins, immediately capturing the attention of both Stilinski men.  “I think-”

“Derek, what the hell?” Stiles hisses, reaching across and tugging at the sleeve of his jacket until Derek gently dislodges Stiles’ fingers with his own.

“I think you should sit down for this,” he finishes, desperately trying to remember the manners his parents had been hell bent on drilling into him. He can do this. Just be polite and conscientious at all times - that’s what Laura used to tell him. That’s what humans like.

“I’m fine standing,” the Sheriff answers coldly, hands back on his hips, resting where his gun holster should be. The response throws Derek for a loop and he glances at Stiles before continuing.

“Okay,” he licks his lips, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands. “I’m a werewolf.”

“You expect me to believe that? What the hell, Stiles?” Sheriff Stilinski looks at his son and lifts both hands to rub over his face impatiently. He looks exhausted and sick of the world, like this is the final straw. By the time he looks up again, Derek has let his eyes shine red. He can feel his fangs halfway descended from his gums, just enough to prove himself to the Sheriff without sending him running for a firearm.

The silence that follows is so absolute that Derek’s ears ring with it. It presses against his eardrums and fills his head until all he can focus on is the thrumming of three heartbeats, all strong and healthy but unnaturally fast. His claws press against the denim of his trousers and he can feel an animalistic urge within him to grab Stiles and run, run a long way away until they’re both safe.

Stiles lets out a hysterical laugh.

Sheriff Stilinski reaches for a tumbler of whiskey.

It doesn’t get much easier from there.

*

They end up in the kitchen, the Sheriff pouring whiskey from a bottle he’d pulled from behind the fridge. Stiles had looked horrified, on the edge of protesting when his dad had shot him a look that was definitely edging into Officer-of-the-Law territory. The boy’s mouth had snapped shut and he’s been staring resolutely at the tiled floor ever since.

Derek follows his lead, arms crossed protectively over his chest whilst he thinks about the many hundred of ways this could go wrong. He only looked up in surprise when a small glass of whiskey slid its way across the table, stopping by his elbow.

“Drink,” the Sheriff orders, gesturing at the glass with the bottle. “No way am I doing this sober.”

“Dad-”

“For Christ’s sake, Stiles,” he cuts off his son with a glare. “You’ve been lying to me for months and suddenly _this?_ You’re lucky I’ve not keeled over from sheer stress. This is my house, and I will have a drink. Especially when it transpires that my son is involved with a _monster,_ for crying out loud!”

“Dad!” Stiles shouts, standing from his seat and waving his hands. His face is reddening and Derek can hear his heartbeat rising steadily, anger and frustration pouring off him in unhealthy amounts. “They,” he flings his left hand in Derek’s direction, “Are _not_ monsters, okay? They are not an enemy that stalks around in the dead of night, picking off innocents one by one. They are people, just like us. They are people with skills that are immensely useful and when they’re in control, which the whole pack is now, they are not dangerous in the slightest. Scott turns into a goddamn _puppy_ on the full moon now, werewolves are not monsters.” He finishes his tirade strongly, emphasising each word.

Derek stares.

It’s difficult not to when Stiles is so beautiful, flushed as he is, hair mussed from where he’s been agitatedly pulling at it while he was defending Derek and his whole species from his father. It’s hard to tear his eyes away when Stiles is so obviously passionate about this, so determined to make everyone believe that werewolves are not the monsters in this tale when even Derek himself doubts it occasionally.

“Scott, too?” The Sheriff asks, looking tired and angry and disbelieving. He takes a long pull of whiskey from his tumbler and sinks into the chair next to him, opposite where Stiles is still stood, stature tense and braced as though he’s ready to step in front and protect Derek from his dad.

Stiles nods sharply, expressions morphing into something more concerned than angry. He, too, sits down looking drained.

“His asthma?”

The boy nods again, slower this time.

“Okay,” the Sheriff says quietly, closing his eyes briefly. “Tell me from the start.”

It takes a while but they do. They start with Laura, Derek carefully hiding the fact that this conversation is knocking down walls he painstakingly constructed to protect himself from the pain of her death. He never dealt with these feelings, instead blanketed them with anger, threw himself into finding the Alpha and putting it down. Since then, he’s not had a chance to stop and think about his sister, he’s been dealing with his own pack; Gerard and Jackson; Stiles and Scott. But he lays it out for the Sheriff, talking clinically about how Laura had been murdered by ‘a rogue Alpha’ that he’s subsequently had to kill. He leaves out Stiles’ involvement – it probably wouldn’t do him any favours.

He moves onto his betas then, carefully not mentioning any names but explaining that he’d chosen people who needed it, either for health reasons or social reasons. He and Stiles explain about Jackson, how he’d been brainwashed and controlled by a ‘psycho geriatric with serious evil-monologue issues’. Derek doesn’t miss the way Stiles’ heart skips around as they talk about Gerard, how he shifts uncomfortably as though he’s remembering an injury, cracked ribs maybe. It makes him want to growl and snap at something because there’s only one time the boy’s has been hurt like that.

Stiles takes the lead when they explain how Matt had been killed because Derek never really knew the whole story, was preoccupied with Gerard and his missing betas. He hadn’t really cared about the teenager who’d turned up dead in a river apart from that it meant a whole lot more trouble for him.

The Sheriff reacts exactly as well as expected. That is to say, there’s a lot of frustrated muttering and face-rubbing and other nervous tics, probably borne from the fact that his son has been fighting supernatural monsters for the last few months alongside his werewolf best friend and an older man that the Sheriff himself has arrested more than once. At this point, Derek’s kind of impressed Sheriff Stilinski hasn’t fallen over and died of cardiac arrest.

It isn’t until Stiles refers to Derek and the betas as ‘my pack’ that the Sheriff actually asks for clarification. 

“ _‘Your_ pack’?” He repeats, eyebrows rising.

“Our pack,” Stiles replies quickly.

“‘ _Our_ pack’?” The Sheriff asks, sounding vaguely horrified in a way that Derek’s sure would be offensive if he wasn’t so busy realigning everything he knows to fit neatly around Stiles’ assertion that it’s their pack. The two of them. Together. _Their_ pack. He takes a sip of whiskey to distract himself, wincing when it burns down his throat. Why do humans even bother?

“Derek’s!” Stiles corrects, blushing beet red as both the Sheriff and Derek stare at him, the Sheriff with a pained, slightly embarrassed look as though he can’t quite believe the direction this conversation has taken and Derek – Well. Derek’s still stuck on the idea of he and Stiles leading their pack together, Stiles fulfilling the position he was so blatantly born to take up with a fierceness and protectiveness that would rival any other Alpha. “Derek’s pack, obviously. He’s Alpha, you know. His pack.” He bites at his lip and looks between his father and Derek with a sheepish expression, like he isn’t entirely sure who’s going to reprimand him for his slip first.

Sheriff Stilinski merely pours himself another measure of whiskey and offers the bottle over to Derek, who takes it even though his glass is still mostly full.

“I think you need to bring the pack, whoever’s it is, over for dinner,” The Sheriff says, standing from his chair and moving toward the lounge, untucking his shirt with the hand that isn’t clutching his tumbler like Stiles still might make a lunge to take it off him. The kid looks like he’d try, to be fair, even though the bottle still sits on the kitchen table.

“Wait, why?” Stiles asks, hopping up to sit on the table so he’s facing Derek and the doorway through which his father just disappeared.

“Ground rules,” the Sheriff shouts back, the sound of the TV showing some kind of sporting event proving background noise. “Like sleeping in your own bed for once,” he adds, prompting the colour to drain from Stiles’ face as his eyes widen and he makes a series of gestures at Derek that, frankly, Derek cannot parse the meaning of. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Run. While you still can,” he whispers melodramatically, pushing Derek’s shoulder towards the back door. “No wait. He needs to hear you go, come on.”

Stiles pulls him down the hall, talking loudly about when Derek’s free for the pack dinner with Sheriff Stilinski. (The answer is always. He has literally no commitments.) At the front door, the kid shoots him an exaggerated wink and pulls him in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Derek’s mouth before opening up the door and gesturing for him to leave. “Come in the window,” he breathes nearly silently, shrugging one shoulder nonchalantly like it doesn’t actually matter to him whether Derek does or not. It’s bullshit. The uptick in his heart and the faint flush high on his cheekbones is testament to just how much bullshit that is.

“See you soon,” Derek replies easily, lips quirking when Stiles lets out a relieved sigh and raises his hand in a quick wave.

Derek crunches the gravel of the driveway more than entirely necessary. He also slams his car door harder than he would normally dream of. And maybe he wills his engine to roar a little more when he pulls away. So what? It’s early enough that it won’t disturb the neighbours, at least.

He drives four blocks away and parks his car in the most shadowy spot he can find, hoping that the coming night time will hide it from any prying eyes and nosy old women with nothing better to do than spread rumours about the local ‘bad boy’. Derek wonders, as he makes his way into the forest that backs onto the Stilinski house, how he even got that reputation. He wonders if anyone even remembers anymore how he used to mow lawns in the summer or rake leaves in the autumn or pour grit over driveways and pavements in the winter to keep the ice at bay. Probably not. It was a long time ago and time has never done Derek a favour of any kind.

Dating the underage son of the Sheriff probably won’t do his image any favours come to think of it, but when Stiles startles at the rap of knuckles on his window, then smiles and rolls his eyes, kisses Derek breathless as he drags him over to the bed... He can’t quite bring himself to care about his image. Not one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I feel I should thank gryvon for being patient with me on this. Like, it's literally taken me 6 months to write this. That's a new record for me. I also want to thank my lovely beta who has been ULTRA HELPFUL and can be found on tumblr here: lydiayukimura.tumblr.com 
> 
> Again, my tumblr is imtheanomaly for general things and missdizzyd for fanfic things. Prompts are welcome and reviews are actively encouraged. Hugs and butterfly kisses all round. Thanks for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on tumblr. imtheanomaly for my regular blog or missdizzyd for my fanfic blog. prompts are welcome and reviews are actively encouraged.


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